


Blumen Regen

by CassieIngaben



Series: Snowdrops and Red Roses [1]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: Dorian Red, Earl of Gloria, had never fallen in love. And he certainly had no intention of doing so, thank you very much. He'd seen enough of what would happen if—when—things went wrong. The way they had for his mother, shortly after Dorian had turned eleven.
Relationships: Dorian Red Gloria/James, Klaus von dem Eberbach/Dorian Red Gloria
Series: Snowdrops and Red Roses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204187
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	Blumen Regen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alisse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisse/gifts), [Anne-Li (Anneli)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anneli/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Words That Water Flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9663233) by [DecemberCamie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecemberCamie/pseuds/DecemberCamie). 
  * Inspired by [A Dandelion By Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383256) by [TabbyCat33098](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabbyCat33098/pseuds/TabbyCat33098). 
  * Inspired by [Arbutus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635687) by [DynaRiotPillar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DynaRiotPillar/pseuds/DynaRiotPillar). 
  * Inspired by [Не просто ромашки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423601) by [Alisse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisse/pseuds/Alisse). 
  * Inspired by [After The Flowers Have Gone From My Chest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622118) by [goatsghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatsghost/pseuds/goatsghost). 



Dorian Red, Earl of Gloria, had never fallen in love. And he certainly had no intention of doing so, thank you very much. He'd seen enough of what would happen if—when—things went wrong. The way they had for his mother, shortly after Dorian had turned eleven.

She'd taken him for a walk—a rare enough event, especially when it was just the two of them, his ever-present, ever-annoying sisters being away at school. Where he should also have been, except he'd come down with whooping cough and been sent home. He dimly remembered coming home coughing, gasping and struggling for breath, but it was mostly blurry, as if he were looking at the scene from some faraway place. He eventually came back to himself, but still had coughing fits that sent him into a tailspin of pain and panic, and left him trembling and breathless. Following doctor's orders, Mother had bundled Dorian up in layers of wool, and taken him out daily as 'to take the fresh air' was good for his throat and lungs. Allegedly. Dorian hadn't really checked but he strongly suspected that the 'fresh air and strong tea' medical school was going out of favour. Or at least he hoped so.

The first week of February had seen them trudging along the park towards the lake, their feet crunching on the glimmering, pristine snow. The weather was sunny, frigid air and vivid cloudless sky; yet Father had predicted more snow, and plonked himself in front of the fireplace in the library, brandy at hand. Dorian'd carried bread for the swans, and his throat and lungs hadn't hurt as badly. When they'd got to the lake, Mother had sat down on the ornate stone bench, and let Dorian come dangerously close to the winged brutes.

After a while, the thrill of danger had been replaced by puzzlement. Why was Mother not saying anything? She never let pass an opportunity to tell Dorian what to do—or rather, NOT to do. Which was most of the things Dorian liked doing. He threw the rest of the bread in the water, the soggy lumps going straight into the birds' gullets. He turned back to Mother, and called to attract her attention. It proved to be a bad idea; Dorian started to cough, the ugly whooping sound carried by the thin dry air. It hurt, and it was scary, both for how it felt and how it sounded. He tried to run to Mother, but he was too out of breath to do more than inch his way towards her.

Dorian still remembered how pale his mother had looked, even in the type of temperature that would make her high cheekbones glow pink in a way that everybody described as _charmante_ , whatever that was supposed to mean. She just looked a little splotchy to Dorian. But not now. She was not really paying any attention to him, looking past the lake abstractedly, but eventually she sensed his distress; she put on a weak smile, and held out a creamy, aristocratic hand.

"Come here, Dorian."

He'd made it to the bench and stood in front of her, a little unsteadily.

"Dorian. There's something you should know—"

Dorian looked at her face from close up, and felt the bottom of his stomach drop. 

She took a laboured breath. "Mummy's ill—" she suddenly started coughing spasmodically, the attack ferocious, ugly, relentless. It went on for so long, Dorian had time to run the whole gamut of hypotheses. Had he given Mother the whooping cough? Was she going to die? Was it his fault? Adults could get very ill when they caught whooping cough; he'd looked it up.

Helen Gloria rummaged in her purse frantically, grasping for a handkerchief with a sudden sense of urgency. She finally grabbed the elegant square of fine cotton lawn and pressed it over her mouth—but it was too late. Her lips bloomed crimson, blood-red stains overwhelming the handkerchief's stemming powers.

_Consumption. She has consumption._ Dorian had read all about it since discovering Millais's works. She was going to die. Maybe he was also going to die. Consumption was contagious. Maybe he had it too, and they had lied to him—they did it all the time—and told him it was whooping cough. It was her fault, not his.

She gestured weakly, over the slowly-receding attack, vainly tried to croak something, then shook her head as if angry. Except she never cried when she was angry. Dorian took a hesitant step, not really knowing if he was going to move forward or run away, and she took him by the wrist and pulled him closer.

"Dorian—"

A final bout of coughing shook her, and more blood came out of her mouth. Except it wasn't blood. It was rose petals. Deep, dark red petals, velvet-textured, smelling intoxicatingly sweet, the most enticing scent he'd ever smelled.

"Dorian." Her voice was weak and raw, but she'd stopped coughing. A rain of petals slowly fell on the snowy ground.

"Dorian. I'm sorry. I know this is scary. I tried not to worry you, but I can't hide it anymore."

"Are you going to die?" Dorian blurted out.

She looked at him, eyes indigo with sadness. "Only if I stay."

"Are you going away?"

She nodded. The silence was louder than the swans' cries.

"I'm so sorry Dorian. I wish there was another way. I tried. We tried"—she shrugged—"more or less. Your father—you see, we'd hoped—I'd hoped—that it would turn out well, that he—"

"Is he going to die?"

She held in a snorting sound, barely. "Oh, no. Definitely not."

"But you will?"

"I told you. Only if I stay. So, I need to go away. Your father and I agreed. You'll stay here. Become the next Earl. Your sisters are coming with me."

"WHY?"

"Dorian? Please. There's no other way. I'm sorry—"

He turned around and ran blindly, directionless, until he found himself in his secret clearing, stumbling as he doubled over with coughing spasms, the cold air stabbing his throat and lungs each time he drew breath. He curled on the flat stone, unheeding of the powdery snow dusting it, and howled until he thought he could taste blood—not petals, no, never petals—in his mouth.

Gordon eventually found him, torchlight sweeping up and down him as if to check he was all in one piece. The man didn't say anything, but picked Dorian up and carried him home as if he were a little child.

By evening, Dorian's temperature had spiked, and the doctor was called. By the time Dorian emerged from his sick bed, Mother had gone.

* * *

He'd understood only much later that his mother's 'going away' entailed undergoing the life-saving, soul-destroying surgery Hanahaki victims chose out of desperation. The rare, fatal flower disease borne out of unrequited love. Dorian was never sure if she'd left him behind because she loved him too much, or because she didn't love him enough. The next time they'd met was at the reading of Father's Will. She'd not attended the funeral. She'd walked into the Solicitor's office in a metal-grey power suit, back ramrod straight, moving with that highly unsettling rigidity Hanahaki survivors all had. Some tried to hide it—she didn't. It must have been really bad. Father had never once discussed the subject, affecting indifference and relief, while hovering between promiscuous and drunk.

The Will had not been entirely surprising: in short, there was no money left. Mother of course could count on her disability pension, but Dorian faced having to sell the castle and find a job. Except it hadn't happened, because of James. Who had saved the castle, and lost himself. He must have tried to hide it for quite a long time, like everybody did, out of fear, shame, and humiliation: but Dorian had eventually caught him, bent double over what had been a precisely stacked pile of 50 pound banknotes, and was now a wreck of salmon-coloured confetti strewn with the delicate orange and yellow Alstroemeria petals streaming out of James's mouth.

James'd lifted his head and looked at him. Dorian had suspected, but never thought about it too much; the truth now lay plainly in James's desperate, resentful, hopeless eyes. Still coughing weakly, he stood, swaying gently as if he himself had become a flower, and whispered. "I'm not going away. I'm not seeing a doctor. I don't care if I die."

Dorian had nodded, feeling his heart break—but not in the way that would have saved James.

What saved James—in a manner of speaking—had been his collapsing on the street on his way from the Stock Exchange. He'd made it to hospital unconscious, and rushed into the operating theatre, no time for ifs and buts. Dorian was never sure whether they'd botched the operation, or whether they'd left it too late. What came back from hospital was not the usual hollow husk of a former person: cold, remote, withdrawn. James had, for lack of a better word, become an angry caricature of himself, all love, greed, and eccentricity—impossible to say whether he felt anything human anymore. What had been a tragedy had become a farce.

* * *

The moment Dorian had turned away from _The Man in Purple_ and set his eyes on Major Klaus von dem Eberbach, he'd sneered the way he did when warning bells started to ring in his mind. It was easy to discount the young waifs he surrounded himself with—they were certainly delightful, and the stuff for airy romance, but there was no danger he would get sick over them. And if they did, well, too bad for them. Didn't they know the score? But when it came to dark-haired, butch types, it was Dorian's turn to be careful. And Dorian'd always been very careful.

But this time, he'd sensed that something was off. The "I don't fall in love. Ever." mantra had started to recede. At some point, he'd begun to wonder what type of flower he would cough up, when it happened. Because it was bound to happen. When he couldn't cope with the suspense anymore, he stood up in front of Klaus and declared himself. Get it over with. Which had gained him a bloodied nose. When he'd brought his hands to his face, he'd seen again the blood-red petals his mother had coughed over his father—and then blinked, when he'd realised it was just plain, simple blood.

He'd still waited for it to happen. Even fantasised about different outfits to match the petals. He was quite sure they'd be red roses—but maybe they would be cacti, to honour his prickly love. He'd stick to white, or cream, just to make sure. Maybe with a little mauve, for contrast.

And then, one day he got up and realised the extent of his stupidity. Sometimes, what you don't see is what you get. He clamped down on his jubilation, and went about seeking confirmation from Harley Street.

"I need to be sure, doctor. Has my mother's Hanahaki made me somehow immune?"

"Impossible, Milord."

Dorian managed to hold in his whoop of joy until he was out of the building. He went straight home, and had Bonham book a flight to Bonn. 

* * *

Dorian strode into the library of Castle Eberbach, Conrad ineffectually tugging at his sleeve. "Why didn't you say you love me? Is this some misguided masochism masquerading as old-fashioned bigotry?"

Klaus looked up from his document-strewn desk, and actually went red. Dorian goggled at the sight, and then felt a corresponding flush, a wave of triumph surging through his body. Klaus stood up slowly, took a deep breath and opened his mouth. A spray of snowdrops came out of it.

Dorian discovered how easy it is for triumph to turn into murderous rage. Was there someone else? Who was the cold bastard trampling all over Klaus's heart? But how was that possible? It didn't make sense. He knew Klaus loved him. He had to.

The coughing fit was over before Dorian could formulate a coherent sentence. Klaus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dusted off the few petals clinging to his suit, and looked at Dorian accusingly.

"I thought of killing you, but I'm told it still would not make this go away."

"That's the last thing it would make it go away! I love you!"

"Explain this, then." Klaus pointed at the snowdrops strewn all over NATO-blue folders.

"I—"

"Precisely. 'I'. What you feel, or claim you feel. It's all about you. You're not in love with me. You're in love with being in love. With the aesthetics."

Dorian blanched. He sat down on the nearest armchair and stared at the horrid Berruguete oil on the wall, just above the Biedermeier chair; a terrible clash of styles.

"Go ahead. Tell me you're not thinking of that painting now. It's from the Persimmon estate, if you want to know. You're probably familiar with heartless bastards. I'll grant you, *he* had no taste in art."

There was nothing to say to that.

"I'm scheduled for surgery in six weeks. Would have it done sooner, but I'm in the middle of a mission."

"How long?"

"About four hours in the theatre, then a couple of weeks in hospital—"

"I mean, how long since you've known?"

"Would it make a difference?"

"If you'd told me, I might have tried—"

"There's no 'try'. You love, or you don't. And you obviously don't."

Klaus turned round to face the fire. And started to cough again, impossibly beautiful snowdrops starkly white over the brick-red Khotan Samarkand rug. Probably not from the Persimmon collection—too tasteful, too beautiful.

Dorian got up and left.

* * *

"Am I so shallow? And blind, too."

Bonham cleared his throat, casting around for words. But the hesitation was answer enough. Dorian bit his lips, and turned towards the fireplace, staring at the flames.

"I see. But I thought—I thought, maybe it's because he doesn't want to love me. He does, because he got ill; but he has all those bigoted, antiquated notions about propriety, family, heirs…" Dorian turned again to face Bonham. "If I were a woman, he'd want to love me, and he wouldn't be ill."

"It's not the way it works," said Bonham, as gently as he could. "It's not his fault."

"When James got ill, I didn't think it was his fault."

"Didn't you? You said—"

"That was before: when that Caesar Gabriel coughed tiger lilies all over our best Bakhtiari rug, and all I could think about was, they'll stain the carpet—"

"That is precisely the point uncle NATO was trying to make. You think it's his fault for not caring about the art. You always complain he can't understand that painting of his you're after. The painting you love."

"Why can't I love HIM and art?"

Bonham shrugged. "That I don't know."

* * *

James walked up to Dorian, who was standing near the French window in the south drawing room, looking abstractedly at the rose garden. He handed Dorian a ledger, then he stood back, took a deep breath and said: "You are in love with your idea of that German, not the real one. Who's unlovable."

Dorian looked up from the ledger. "Nobody's unlovable."

"Apparently, I am."

"Jamesie—"

"Don't call me that! Don't you call me that ever again!"

Dorian took a step back. "Mr. James. I'm not sure why you want to talk about this at all, but—"

"Because I want you to see it."

"After what happened, you want to help me?"

James bit his lips. "Maybe. Or maybe I want to rub it in."

Dorian drew himself up. "Right. I said I'm sorry. What else do you want?"

"To make you stop thinking it was my fault."

"I don't—"

"I'm afraid you do."

"Just because I told you I wasn't willing to pretend—to force myself to feel something I didn't, be someone I wasn't—I'd just become a puppet—a doormat—"

"I'd rather not discuss who was the doormat. I think I've had enough of this conversation." James turned and left.

* * *

"You were there, Gordon. When my mother left."

Gordon set the silver tray on the side table, and poured Lapsang Souchong into an antique Wedgewood cup. "Indeed, Milord."

"How did I react? What did I do?"

"You were upset, naturally. And angry. Sometimes I think you haven't stopped being angry."

"WHAT—" Dorian caught himself, and took a deep breath. He stared at the steaming liquid in his teacup, and then said slowly. "That's it. Must be. I never got over the trauma. The tragedy. The doctor said Mother being ill could not make me immune. But it could make me unable to run the risk—I convinced myself I can't fall in love. I'm damaged."

Gordon looked at the floor and sighed. _Probably. But not in the way you think you are._

Dorian set down his cup and stood. "I'll find a therapist, or a hypnotist, or whoever can cure me."

"Are you sure it's the fault of Lady Gloria's illness?"

"You said I was upset."

_And spoilt. Not your fault, then. But you're not a child anymore._ "You were easily upset at many things, Milord. Not all of them related to Lady Gloria's illness. Do you remember when your father decided to sell that charcoal drawing of an old woman?"

"It was Dürer's _Portrait of the Artist's Mother at the Age of 63_. A sketch of his ill, dying mother."

"Did you know that, back then? You called it 'the squinting hag' and threw a tantrum at your mother when she said it was for your boarding school fees.

Dorian blinked. "Oh. So I did."

* * *

Dorian reached to wipe off wet snow from the headstone; his fingers whispered a caress over the name and dates. Then he stepped back.

"Did you ever love anyone, Father?"

In the long silence, broken only by the cawing of birds overhead, Dorian cast his mind back to the walk he and Father had taken in that very corner of the park, the year after Mother had left. Father had spoken a great deal. Dorian had been confused, then and now, as to what the monologue was about, for whom, and why—but he'd never asked any questions. 

Dorian looked down at the cruelly ironic snowdrops strewn all over the partly melted snow surrounding his father's grave; tiny flowers nested amongst the icy diamonds and pearls sprinked over the few visible spears of grass. As a child, he'd asked a lot of questions: he clearly remembered his father's casual answers, or non-answers. 'I don't know why the grass is different colours and lengths and textures, Dorian. I expect it's in a book somewhere? Or maybe you can ask your mother.' Which Dorian had already stopped doing a long time ago, lest he stoke the growing irritation she was increasingly consumed by. So it had been the Library, or sometimes Gordon, depending on the subject.

And yet, the one time Father had abandoned his benign neglect for a rambling, cryptic monologue about the Gods, Fate and Responsibility, Dorian had kept his questions to himself. Not that he'd been able to formulate them properly. Or dare think them at all. Questions like: 'What does it feel not to be able to care? How did you feel? Were you sorry? Did you try at all? Did you think it was your fault?'

By the time they'd stopped in front of the lake, Theo's speech had reached a crescendo, and then wound down into silence. The sun had shone like pale wheat and swans had sailed majestically amongst lesser birds, triremes amongst fishing boats. Dorian had been entranced by how the birds' jet eyes seemed to ooze the black gummy treacle ringing their orange beak. The angry contrast of white, black and orange-red had dwarfed the brown-striped ducks bobbing up and down at a safe distance, knowing better than to defy the swans' ferocity.

Dorian had looked up and said: "We didn't bring bread for the swans."

"So we didn't." His father had shrugged, and chuckled. "The Queen will be upset."

All Dorian remembered wanting to ask was, 'Why would swans want to mate for life?'

Instead, they'd sat on the ornate stone bench. Father had produced sweets from his pockets; they'd watched the sun set the water on fire, scales of shining gold blinding in the bracing air, Dorian chewing his liquorice string, and Father swigging from his flask.

* * *

Dorian walked into the Blue room, and looked up at the far wall. Remembered when he'd stood on tiptoe to hang his newly re-aquired _Portrait of the Artist's Mother at the Age of 63_ , and said, 'what I want, I get.' James had stood next to him, looking at the way Dorian was looking at the charcoal sketch, and had said nothing. What had James felt? Did he already have Hanahaki, back then?

In a soft voice, Dorian addressed the sketch. "I'm sorry I called you 'squinting hag.' I was angry at being fobbed away to school. And the irony is, it was Mother who went away, and I was stuck here because Father said I had to be taught to be the next Earl of Gloria. And what a lesson that was."

He took a deep breath, exhaled. "How did you feel when they sold you? Did you think it was your fault?"

He looked at the careworn face; the bewildered, scared eyes trying to make sense of her impending fate. He stretched up, took a hold of the Dürer and turned it to the wall. Then he stood back and tried to understand what he was feeling.

Eventually, he left.

*

Dorian stepped into the Library, and did a double take. "Herr A!"

A glanced at Bonham, who gestured for him to go ahead. A cleared his throat. "Major von dem Eberbach doesn't know I'm here, and he would not have approved if he did—"

Dorian took a step forward, and stood in front of A, a little unsteadily. "What happened?"

"The Major was taken ill. With the flower disease—" A blushed. "He's in hospital in Bonn. It's bad."

James walked in as out of nowhere, staring at Dorian's ashen face with cold eyes. "I'll book you a flight. If you can force yourself to go."

* * *

Z stood up from the ugly hospital chair, and nodded. "A. Lord Gloria. Bonham."

"Where is he?"

"ICU. Over there."

"Is he—"

Z looked down.

Dorian squared his shoulders, stepped into the cold, sterile room, and walked up to the bed. The nurse stood up from Klaus's bedside, and shook her head. "I'm sorry—"

Bonham held him by the arm as Dorian swayed as if struck, then helped him sit on the chair the nurse had vacated. Klaus lay on the bed, pale as death, breathing shallowly. Snowdrops scattered the crisp hospital sheets, white on white.

"Milord—"

"Leave me alone, Bonham. Please."

Bonham tugged the nurse away, and closed the door softly behind them.

Dorian put a hand over the bedsheets, a whisper of a caress. He picked up a snowdrop, and put it against his lips; it smelled like a winter meadow. He cradled the snowdrop in his hands, and contemplated it. Then he raised his eyes to the bed.

"As I rushed here, I thought: 'I'd give my life for you.' Does it mean I love you? I know you don't believe it. Nobody believes it. I don't know if I believe it either. It can't be love, because you're dying." He covered Klaus's hand with his. "I'm sorry. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Klaus stirred, dislodging the tiny, delicate flowers, and slowly opened his eyes. He took a rasping breath. "Say—it—again."

Shaking his head in stunned confusion, Dorian breathed. "What?"

"What you just said."

"It's my fault." Dorian swiped tears from his cheeks. "All my fault. I wanted to—I don't know why I couldn't—I wouldn't— But I do— "

Klaus snorted weakly. He was still breathing shallowly, but his cheeks had regained colour, and he fought to raise himself up. Dorian hastened to his side, letting out a delighted laugh. Klaus shook his arm away, and sat up on the bed.

"Took you long enough, you selfish idiot."

**Author's Note:**

>  _Blumen Regen_ is German for "Flower Shower" or "Rain of Flowers." 
> 
> This fanfic was written for the January 2021 groups.io challenge "Summary Russian Roulette." The challenge required picking a random word and searching for it on the AO3; then, choosing a story from an unfamiliar fandom, and using its summary as an inspiration. The random word could be chosen in a variety of ways. In my case, I was inspired by a Christmas card Anne-Li sent me. The card included an Aoike illo where[ James is holding a flower whose petals are a patch](https://sparkpeo.hs.llnwd.net/e4//6/6/b66459392.jpg). Typical Aoike surrealism, really—but I decided to use 'flower petals' as my random word. After some scrolling I picked a few summaries I liked. They are listed at the beginning of this story.
> 
> I am aware that the lovely Alisse wrote an Eroica fanfic featuring Hanahaki. [**Не просто ромашки**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423601) (6524 words) by [**Alisse**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisse)  
>  The story is in Russian, and I had a go at reading it courtesy of Google Translator (sorry, Alisse!). I was of course influenced by it, but I tried to give it my own spin in this story.  
> Finally, since the Hanahaki trope is basically a variation on the Beauty and the Beast story, I also threw that in the mix. The more, the merrier!


End file.
